


baby, baby i (doing what feels right)

by figure8



Series: common tongue [2]
Category: EXO (Band), K-pop, SHINee
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Dystopia, F/M, Genderswap, Knifeplay, Light Dom/sub, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Topping from the Bottom, Vaginal Sex, kinda? nothing major, not that it matters here lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 12:10:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16953744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: She always has the upper hand when they spar.





	baby, baby i (doing what feels right)

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written straight sex in SO long, please bear with me. title from july by kris wu, which truly is The Mood
> 
> this fic portrays unprotected but not *unsafe* sex - it's been discussed and agreed upon off screen, taemin is on the pill, and they both know they're clean.  
> i hate listing sex acts in the tags but i know some people want to know exactly what they're getting into, so you can skip to the end notes for more details. 
> 
> enjoy <3

_You’ve been looking for a reason_   
_To have me in your arms_   
_Where I wanna be_

 

She always has the upper hand when they spar. He likes to say it’s because she’s distracting, and in a sense it’s true, but mainly it’s that she’s better than him. Always has been, probably always will be. The way she handles the knife, the way she undulates, he’s no match for the swiftness of her movements, for the hunger in her eyes. She loves to win. He, if anything, loves to watch her win.

That’s how he finds himself on the floor, with Taemin straddling him, sharp blade pressed to his jugular. The slightest pressure, just enough for him to _know_ she could draw blood if she really wanted to. He’d let her. He realizes it right there, his back rigid against the mat, and it’s dizzying, his breath hitching. She grins, feline, and bends down to steal a kiss.

“Jonginnie,” she says against his mouth, saccharine, “I win.” She’s still holding the knife to his throat. His voice, when he answers, is hoarser than expected.

“Yeah,” he concedes, “You win.”

His hands are on her hips, now. He doesn’t want her to get up. She’s warm, pleasantly heavy on top of him. She kisses him again, but this time it’s long, open-mouthed. And her knife, infuriatingly, between the two of them. Her arm is tense, ninety degree angle, like she’s expecting him to try and escape any minute now, like she doesn’t know he’s her prisoner with or without weapons, willingly under her, until she decides she doesn’t want him there anymore.

“Tae,” he gasps, “Taemin, I’m—”

But she’s rolling her hips already, like she’s reading his mind, and maybe she is. Even through the layers of their clothes, she must feel how hard he is, how much he wants her. He wishes he could flip them over, undress her, lick his way down her body. He also, contradictorily, _urgently_ does not want her to move. Wants her exactly like this, trapping him between her thighs, blade digging into his pulse point.

“How attached are you to this shirt?” she asks, and it’s reassuring, at least, to know her voice too is wavering, even if it is only slightly.

He blinks, confused. “Not a lot, I guess?”

“Cool.”

And then she’s cutting it open, one hand gripping the collar, the other slicing down the fabric adroitly, one fast movement. Puts her mouth on his collarbone before he can protest, knife now discarded on the ground. He slides his hands higher, under her tank-top, up her sides; relishes in the way her breath comes out shorter.

“Off,” he tugs, demanding, and she detaches herself from him just long enough to pull her shirt over her head. Like that, he can bury his face between her breasts, suck a mark on the soft flesh right above the hem of her bra, next to the one he left yesterday. She arches up into his touch, gasping, her fingers now clutched in his hair as he rubs his nose and lips across the hard nubs of her nipples under thin black cotton. His hand dances up her back, blindly looking for the clasp. It only takes him two tries when he finds it, and he hums triumphantly against her skin, making her giggle. She pushes him back down, then, gently but firmly.

“Don’t move,” she orders, so he stills, anticipating. Objectively, anyone could come in. It’s late, they never use the dojo during the day, but the door is unlocked, and they can’t be the only people to train at night. But he thinks Taemin likes the thrill of it, the possibility of getting caught, and Jongin, well. Jongin likes anything that makes Taemin happy.

She pushes herself up on her knees, reaches under her tennis skirt with one hand to slip off her panties. Jongin watches, tantalized, as she chucks them behind her, smile on her face. She taps his thigh, then, and he immediately lifts his hips so she can help him work off his shorts, then his briefs. Naked except for his ruined shirt hanging off his shoulders, he feels a tad vulnerable. But how Taemin stares, hunger clear in the way dark black swallows the deep brown of her irises, it burns on his skin like the sun at its zenith, enveloping him. She has a hand under her skirt now, and by the way her wrist is moving, he can tell, one or two fingers inside herself. His mouth waters at the thought, but she told him to stay still, so—

“Tae,” he says, because she never said he couldn’t speak, “I want you, I want to touch you.” He sees her swallow dryly before she answers.

“Tss,” a click of her tongue. “Patience.”

He could cajole her into it, knows her pressure points just like she knows his, but he also knows the endgame will be the same anyway, so instead he just tells the truth, breathes out _you’re so pretty_ because she is, a sheen of sweat on her throat, her head thrown back. She looks back down at him at that, smirks fondly. He’s so unbelievably turned on, cock leaking against his stomach, but she said not to move, she said—

“Gonna ride you,” she says, hastily getting rid of her last item of clothing; and he nods furiously, forgets the rule and settles his hands back on her hips. She might be too far gone to care, or she chooses to ignore it. It doesn’t matter. What matters is her hand on him, how she positions herself, guides him so the tip of his cock first teasingly traces in the wetness gathered at her entrance. He grunts, almost against his will, fingers flexing. Then finally, _finally_ she’s sinking down inch by inch, until his hips are flush against hers, and Jongin’s cock is enveloped in tight, wet heat. “Don’t move,” she says again, a little strained, adjusting. Then, hand pressed right above his heart for balance, she starts moving.

She takes what she needs, body rolling with abandon as he groans helplessly, and there is no doubt that she’s the one doing the fucking, here. But he wants to—he wants to make her feel good, he wants to make her feel _better,_ he _wants;_ so he angles his hips, thrusts up to meet her. In the empty dojo, noise reverberates. Her pretty moans, his voice rough and deep as he calls her name, the characteristic squelching sound of sex, skin on skin. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, the fire at the pit of his belly burning faster, flames licking at the base of his spine too, his body buzzing with pleasure.

“Good boy,” Taemin pants, sweet as spun sugar as she amps up her rhythm, “Good, _best_ boy.”

He wants to kiss her, he wants, he _needs,_ so he tries to bring her closer, fingers finding her ear first, and she laughs, and he curls his hand around the back of her neck and pulls her down until their lips meet in a sloppy kiss. It changes the angle, gives him more leverage, and she gasps as he pounds into her deeper. His upper thighs are burning from exhaustion, but it’s worth it, the edge of pain amplifying every sensation.

Then he feels the blade on his throat again.

He doesn’t know when she found the occasion to reach for the knife again, but it’s not exactly like he was paying attention. He can’t think about anything else, now, like all the nerve endings in his body were suddenly rewired to that one, single spot. When Taemin says _look at me, baby,_ he looks at her, and finds something in her gaze, something nameless but familiar. In a moment of dizzying folly, he thinks he’d let her carve her initials on his golden skin, he’d let her mark him up permanently, because it is unfair, that he is hers with nothing to show for it. But she wouldn’t want to, and besides, he does, he _does_ have something to show for it, even if others are blind.

Eyes locked, his life in her hands, she fucks him hard, fucks herself on him, rides him to the finish line. He feels her tense up around him, her moans more hiccups now, fractured breaths, and she comes convulsing, tight tight tight hot _wet,_ and what can he do except follow? It doesn’t take him by surprise, not exactly, not with how it’s been a rising tide, building up steadily, ocean washing over him; but the intensity of it does surprise him, and he shoots inside her, pulsing, back arching in a perfect curved line. He falls back on the mat, chest heaving, as he pumps one last rope of come into her. She gives them both some time, then puts down the dagger next to his head before lifting off, and he pushes himself up on his elbows to watch her. She’s beautiful, blushing the prettiest pink. She’s also _leaking,_ white dripping very slowly down the inside of her thighs, and it wakes up some animalistic part of him, a fierce, terrible hunger. _Mine, mine, mine._

“I—I’ll clean you up,” he manages, breathless, guttural and low, and she smiles fondly, misunderstands him and goes to get up. “No,” he shakes his head, grasping at her waist, “Tae, come up here.”

Her little _oh,_ delighted, as she climbs up, brackets his face with her thighs; her little _oh,_ panting, as he licks his way inside her, licks his own come out of her, her little _oh, Jongin, Jongin—_

He drinks her sounds like nectar, all of them, as she rocks against his mouth, nails digging sharply into his shoulder, legs trembling. He’s going to make her come again, soon, he knows the telltale signs. He’s been slow with the strokes of his tongue up to now, building up to it, more focused on getting her clean than on getting her _there,_ but she’s hypersensitive and he knows her by heart. He sucks hard on her clit and Taemin’s whole body tenses, spasming, and then she goes boneless, clawing uselessly at him as she comes down from her orgasm. He lifts her up gently, and she goes limp against him, covering his body with her own, nose in the crook of his neck. Petting her hair, he kisses her temple, her cheekbone, then her mouth when she moves to let him. Lazy, soft, aimless, his favorite kind of kisses. _Love you,_ he wants to say, _love you love you love you_ because it feels like he could burst with it, but he waits for her to say it first, mumbled, into his chest. She bites there playfully right after, as if the sting could make her words less heavy, less serious, but Jongin knows. He knows.

**Author's Note:**

> untagged: semi-public sex, cunnilingus, come eating
> 
> come say hi on twitter uwu (@yifanapologist). i yell about jongin a lot and sometimes i’ll even say something funny


End file.
